


No One Says Anything

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post-Pacifist Route, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5314277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sound repeats again. A harsh, wounded cry echoing down to the bottom of the stairs where Sans is standing. Sans feels himself wince.</p><p>“Kid?” Sans repeats, tentatively taking his first step up. “You alright up there?”</p><p>In which, Frisk has nightmares about things that never happened, Sans is afraid of losing everything that has happened, and both of them are trying to pick up the broken pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Says Anything

Sans flicks through the channels of the newer TV, the novelty of having more than one station to watch to new for him to actually want to settle down on something to watch. Hundreds of human faces popped up and then disappeared with each switch, along with a few passing monsters here and there.

He was in Toriel’s new house on the surface at the moment, having spent the evening watching Frisk while she was away at some teacher’s banquet until later that night. It had originally been Papyrus set up for babysitting duty, what with him being excellent with children and all, but Undyne had managed to score tickets to one of Mettaton’s normally sold out shows for the same night. The hopeful look Papyrus gave him had been too much for Sans to resist and he had found himself saying yes without even thinking.

Besides, it wasn’t like Frisk was that hard of a kid to take care of. They were a quiet, serious kind of kid who could entertain themselves just fine when it got down to it. All Sans had to do was order a pizza for the both of them, play a couple rounds of scrabble that somehow ended in a pun feud, and read the kid a bedtime story.

It was actually kind of fun if he was being honest with himself. Maybe he’d have to sign up to watch Frisk more often, well as long as he could find the motivation to do so.

A strange noise snaps him out of his musings, vibrating wobbly throughout the room. At first he just thinks it’s the TV, but the same sound rings out again right as he flips the channel. He stops, pressing the off button on the remote and just listening with a puzzled expression.

When the sound continues, he finds his feet shuffling over to the stairs on their own accord. “Kid?” he calls out, hand resting on the banister.

The sound stops and it replaced by a sudden harsh, wounded wail echoing down to the bottom of the stairs where Sans is standing. Sans feels himself wince.

“Kid?” Sans repeats, tentatively taking his first step up. “You alright up there?”

Nothing responds and suddenly, Sans finds himself taking two steps up at a time. His mind, the unhelpful bastard it is, begins churning out terrible scenarios one after the other. Frisk is hurt, he thinks, Frisk is hurt and he’s not moving fast enough.

He rushes over to their bedroom door and throws it open.

Nothing particularly looks out of the ordinary. Not an object out of place, nothing dangerous in sight. The room is in the same scarcely decorated and tidy state it’s always in. The only furnishings are the lamp in the corner, a closet just slightly open to reveal some books and striped sweaters, and a bed with a checker patterned cover. The sole worrisome thing in the room is Frisk, sitting straight up on their bed and looking at their hands as though they’ve betrayed them somehow, their face a blotchy red.

Sans relaxes, eased by the fact there’s no immediate danger. “Hey Frisk? Buddy, you alright?” he asks, trying to keep his voice gentle.

Frisk’s eyes dart up, moving to glance at Sans with a sort of frenzied fear that dissipates as soon as they seem to realize who they're looking at. “Sans,” they whisper, their tone raspy and shaky. They pause, cough, and then continue, their voice more evened out. “...I’m fine.”

“Really?” Sans ambles over to the bed, doing his best to go slow and make the movements as predictable as possible for the scared child. He plops down on the edge of the bed, close but not too close. “Cause, uh, not gonna lie kid, you’re not looking so hot.”

Frisk doesn’t say anything, their previously stoic expression crumbling into something miserable. They pull their knees up to their chest, not meeting Sans’ eyes.

“Nightmares?” Sans asks.

Frisk stills, going completely rigid for a few seconds. They give a jerky nod and tuck their face in between their knees.

“You wanna...You wanna talk about it?”

Frisk doesn’t respond and barely even moves except to draw tighter into themselves.

“It’ll, uh, it’ll probably make you feel better if you talk about them,” he prods, moving a bit closer to the kid. “I know it always helped Papyrus.”

This gets Frisk’s head to pop up, if only to glance at Sans suspiciously. “Papyrus had nightmares?”

“Oh yeah, loads of them. He’d always come into my room, crying about this demon or that vacuum cleaner. He was a bit of a strange kid, ya know? And you know, us skeletons, we already don’t have any guts in the first place,” he says, winking.

Frisk giggles, lifting a hand up to their mouth. Their smile is a little bit tight, but it evokes warm feelings in Sans all the same.

“So what’d you dream about kid? Lay it on me,” he says, reaching out and patting the kid’s knee in what he hopes is a soothing manner. “I can take it.”

Frisk’s smile disappears as quickly as it came. Their face scrunches up, like they’ve got something sour in their mouth and aren’t allowed to spit it out. “I...It was about the underground.”

 _Alright_ , Sans thinks. _There’s a start_. “What about the underground? Are you worried about going back?”

Frisk quickly shakes their head, resting their chin on their knees and looking contemplative. “No, not really.”

“What is it then? You worried about getting hurt? I mean, I know everyone tried to kill you, but you know Toriel would never let them try again, right?”

“No, I know that. I’m just,” Frisk pauses. They sigh and lift up a hand to grab at their hair. “I’m more scared of hurting someone else than anyone hurting me.”

That isn’t quite the answer Sans was expecting, and he feels an old and familiar fear creep up inside of him unbidden. He suddenly remembers waking up with unexplained terror in his bones, a feeling of something awful happening without him able to place a finger on what. He tries to shove the growing dread to the side. “Oh?”

“...I’ve done bad things,” Frisk says. “I’ve hurt a lot of people...not here, but somewhere else, I know I have.” They’re back to looking at their hands again, looking confused and afraid of them. “I remember a lot of things that haven’t happened, they’re like…” They pause, shuffling through their vocabulary to try and pick out the correct word. “Like dreams, I guess, except not really.”

Sans suddenly feels cold. “Who?” he hears himself distantly whisper, even though he gets the feeling he already knows the answer. “Who have you hurt?”

Frisk’s face scrunches up, like they’re trying to recall. “...Everyone...I’ve hurt everyone, I think,” they mummer, tugging at a strand of their hair.

“...Did you ever _want_ to hurt them? Do you still want to hurt them? Toriel, or Papyrus, or Undyne, or..?” He goes to ramble on names, but noticing the kid’s hands are shaking, he stops short.

They’re looking at him with such horrified disgust that it makes him immediately regretful of asking. He tries to take it back. A “Just kidding,” almost flies out of his mouth, but the solemnity on their face makes him hesitate. They look almost like they were expecting this, like they foresaw the question was coming and were resigned to hear it out even if they didn’t want to.

Sans sighs, deciding on a different approach. “Look, kid, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” He fiddles with his bony pinkie, a nervous tick of his that he hasn’t acted out in forever. “I just, get scared sometimes, you know?”

Frisk studies them intently, their face quickly shifting back into unreadable though their hands still shake. Their gaze makes Sans more nervous, more worried as to if he had said the right thing or not. He was about to make a joke of some kind, just to get rid of some of the tension, when the kid goes ahead and makes one for him.

“You don’t get scared.”

It’s said so sincerely that Sans almost bursts into laughter. He swallows it back down quickly, and then tries to say as seriously as he can, “Of course I do, everybody does.”

“Everybody?”

“Everybody.”

“Even Undyne?”

Sans chuckles at that. “Yeah, even her. She’s just better at hiding it than most.”

Frisk hums thoughtfully, their expression still blank but their hands have quit shaking so much. Sans counts it as a victory.

“What are you scared of?” they ask, tilting their head to the side.

“What are you afraid of?” he asks in weak attempt of dodging the question.

“...Are you afraid of me?” they ask.

The air immediately goes silent and tense. Sans shoulders hunch up, a desperate attempt to make himself as tiny as possible. Like maybe he could just shrink himself out of existence and never have to answer the question. He can’t though, so his brain starts spurring out answers and none of them are very nice. “You’re avoiding the question,” he says instead of anything he really wants to.

Where Sans had hunched up, Frisk sags. They slump down with defeat, like they knew this was coming and Sans thinks maybe they did. Maybe they did know. But he hasn’t felt a jump in the timeline like that in ages, not since they got out. Has he gone so soft that a reset really escaped his notice? He needs to check his notes, he needs to go check his notes. 

“Toriel killed me once,” Frisk says, snapping Sans harshly out of his thoughts.

Sans just stares at them. “Oh, yeah?”

Frisk doesn’t look up, looking at their feet like they were the most interesting thing in the world. “Yeah,” they say and pause. “She didn’t mean to, I don’t think. She looked really surprised after she did, but…”

The pause is longer this time, and Sans takes the moment to try to wrap his head around this revelation.

“Have you ever died before?” Frisk asks suddenly.

Sans quickly switches gears, trying not to dwell on the idea of Toriel sitting of Frisk’s burned and bruised body that his mind helpfully imagined. He thinks back, trying to dig up all the memories of notes he has of the more foggy and distant timelines. “Not that I know of,” he finally settles with. “Why?”

“It’s scary,” Frisk says, and he notes they’ve gotten that haunted look on their face again. “It’s not scary when it’s happening, cause it just hurts, but it’s really scary after.” They look down at their shaking hands and clasp them together in an effort to stop them. “You know then, that even if they don’t want to or they don’t mean to, that they can. They can hurt you really badly and you can hurt they really badly, and it’s just...really, really scary.

I almost...I didn’t want to start again,” they say, forcing the words out of their mouth in a way that sounded almost painful. “It was the first time I ever died, and I just, I didn’t want to do that again. I was scared of Toriel, I was scared of her hurting me.”

Sans feels his heart crack a little, his hand reaching out to Frisk but stopping just short of touching them. “Kid…”

“So I don’t blame you.” Their head snaps up, and suddenly they're staring at Sans with such intensity that his hand retreats back further. “You can be afraid of me. I know I could’ve hurt you, or Papyrus, or Undyne.” Water starts collecting in the corner of their eyes. “Or Alphys, or Toriel, or…” The tears are pooling down Frisk’s cheeks now. Their voice is cracking and their lip is wobbling, but their gaze remains just as fierce. “Or, or Mettaton, o-or Asgore...or...anybody. S-So, it’s ok...I-I don’t bla-blame you...I-I promise. I-I don’t blame y-you.”

Sans feels like an absolute turd at the sight of tears, a gigantic wave panic washing over him. This time, he forces his hand forward, attempting to to wipe the water streaks off Frisk’s face with his bony fingers. He finds himself wishing Papyrus was there, his brother would be so much better at dealing with this than Sans could ever hope to be.

He pushes the thought aside. Even he was the worst possible candidate to give any comfort, he’s all Frisk has at the moment and he has to pull himself together for their sake. He takes a deep breath, even though he doesn’t need one, and tries to organize his thoughts.

“You’ve been thinking about this a lot, huh?” he asks.

Frisk slowly nods, not looking at Sans.

“I’m not…” Sans starts, then stops and sighs. “I mean, I am kinda afraid of you. I’m not gonna lie to you here, but I’m not...afraid of _you_. I, uh...I’m scared of...God, I’m terrible at this, I’m sorry.”

Frisk stares at Sans, expression unreadable in the dim light, and for some reason, it inspires him to continue bumbling through his speech.

“I’m scared of something to us, to the us existing here, in this timeline. I’m scared of waking up in Snowdin one day and starting over without knowing. I’m scared of you, because I know you could do that, you could reset down there and I don’t even know if you can reset up here. I’m not...I’m not scared of you personally,” he finishes lamely.

“...I can’t reset anymore,” Frisk says, cutting to the heart of his monologue in a shaky voice. “The points aren’t around anymore.”

It’s Sans turn to stare now. “The points?” he asks, confused for what feels like the first time in forever.

“The save points.”

“Ahh.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, Sans turning over this new information and Frisk studying him intently as he does.

“Is that why you gave up? Because you’re afraid of resets?”

Sans jolts, a cold chill moving down his spine. “Wh-What do you mean, buddy?”

“When I was saving you, you said that I should just give up,” Frisk answers matter a factly, wiping the last ruminates of tears off their face. “You said that’s what you did.”

They stare at each other, both saying absolutely nothing. Frisk’s face is puffy and blotchy, the only visible signs off their crying, but their eyes remain intense and determined. San’s face is split in its normal grin, but he could feel the sweat beading down his cheeks and anxiety tap dancing on his nerves.

“I…” His eyes dart around, as if the right answer to the question will be around the room somewhere.

Things had been so much easier in the Underground. At least there he had a general script to go by, a vague goal in mind. Be buddy buddy with the human, watch over them, at least try to make sure they didn’t kill anyone, rinse and repeat without any memories of it. Here, he had nothing, not a bit of past experience, and it was leaving him floundering.

“I-I…” he repeats, and then suddenly stands up. “How bout we make some hot chocolate? I’ve got a feeling that might help you feel better. It always helped Papyrus when he had bad dreams.” He put on his best happy grin, though he has an inkling that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Frisk just gives him a look, and for a second he’s scared they aren’t going to let this go so easily. However, they seem to spot something that appeases them. Their expression suddenly grows gentle and they push themselves off the bed as well. “Hot chocolate sounds good.”

“Good,” Sans says, holding a hand out for Frisk to grab. “ I got a feeling it will warm you up right down to the bones.”

Frisk latches on, a wobbly smile finding its way onto their lips.

And if Frisk sniffles or Sans’ hand trembles, well, no one says anything.


End file.
